4. The Choice
Dear Friend,
I don't know how to start this entry.
I guess I could say—I made it.
I'm in.
But not just in the army. Not just another face in a uniform.
I've been chosen for something bigger. Something that could change everything.
And I don't know if I'm ready.
It happened so fast. One day, I was getting my fifth rejection stamp, watching the recruiter shake his head with that same tired expression. The next, I was in a small, dimly lit office, a man with sharp eyes and an accent I couldn't place looking at me like I was some kind of answer.
Dr. Erskine.
He saw me—not the way most people do. Not as the frail kid from Brooklyn who didn't know when to stay down. He looked at me like he already knew me.
Like he had been waiting for me.
"You want to go overseas and kill Nazis?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled.
I shook my head. "I don't want to kill anyone."
"Then why?"
I swallowed. I had answered this question a dozen times before, in recruitment offices, in front of sceptical doctors. But this time, I didn't have to force the words.
"Because I don't like bullies." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "I don't care where they're from."
Something flickered in Erskine's eyes. He nodded, as if that was exactly what he had been waiting to hear.
He slid a folder across the desk.
"You could be so much more," he said again, like he did the last time I saw him, this random man who doesn't know me from any other man on the street.
I've spent my whole life hearing the opposite.
I was too weak. Too sickly. Too small to fight.
I don't think I ever really believed I'd get in. I wanted it so badly that I kept trying, kept lying on my enlistment forms, kept hoping that maybe this time would be different. But deep down, I always thought I'd end up right back in Brooklyn.
And now… I don't know.
I keep wondering—what if this doesn't work?
What if it does?
What if I was never meant to be strong? What if I lose myself in whatever they're about to do to me?
Erskine must have seen the doubt on my face, because before I left his office, he told me something I haven't been able to stop thinking about.
"A strong man who has known power all his life may lose respect for that strength," he said. "But a weak man knows the value of it. Knows compassion." He put a hand on my shoulder. "That is why you were chosen, Mr. Rogers."
Tomorrow morning, I step into the chamber.
They say it'll hurt. They say it's never been done before.
They say there's a chance it won't work.
I keep thinking about my mother. About whether she'd be proud of me. About whether she'd be afraid.
I'm scared.
But I'm still going through with it.
Yours,
Steve